by Elise Faber
He finally clued in. “Is it the deodorant again?”
Hazel eyes flashed up to his. “You think?”
Jordan pushed himself back until he was on the outside wall. From the waist up, he was covered in puke. It soaked into his shirt and he unbuttoned it, peeling it free. His undershirt had survived a little better, so he walked over to the sink, shoved the shirt into the garbage bin there, then washed his hands.
Luckily, his sense of smell sucked, otherwise he might have been joining Abby at the trash can.
“What can I do?” he asked.
She moaned and pushed the bin to the side, lying curled up on her side on the floor.
Jordan was a total dick for noticing her skirt had ridden up and that her panties were just a sexy as those four-inch pumps.
Which—he frowned—she shouldn’t be wearing. Not in her condition.
What if she fell?
“Abby?”
“Shh,” she said.
He fell silent, waited for her to say something. When she didn’t, he cautiously moved across the room and glanced down.
Her face was flushed, her eyes were closed. At first, he thought she’d passed out again and his heart skipped a beat. Then her lips pursed, forming a little “o” as her breath puffed through.
She’d fallen asleep.
In a conference room. In the middle of the day. On her first day of work.
She was going to kill him.
He debated whether to wake her or not and after a moment decided not to. How could he? She was carrying his baby, and if she needed rest, then he’d damn sure make certain she got it.
But his conscience pinged as he slipped through the door, closing it behind him. He knew that the kids’ robot project was going to put her under more strain and he knew he should extend the timeline or maybe table it all together.
Except . . . he couldn’t do that.
“What are you doing?” Heather hissed.
When her eyes locked onto his shirt, blatantly eyeing his state of undress and the closed door behind him, he put his hands up. “Come on,” he said. “Like I would ever have a relationship with someone in the workplace.”
She raised a brow, pointed at his shirt. “Hmm.”
“You and your fucking hmms. You think you sound smart by just uttering a syllable? Use words like a normal person.”
“You want words?” she asked. “Why are the hell are you partially dressed after spending an extra half hour with an employee you obviously have a past with? Why does she hate your guts?”
He crossed his arms. “She doesn’t hate my guts.”
Heather laughed. “You’re more delusional than I thought.”
“It’s not like that,” he said. “We—” Jordan sighed, thought fuck it, and laid all the cards on the table. “She’s pregnant. It’s mine.”
“Uh . . .”
For once, Heather using only one syllable didn’t annoy the shit out of him.
“You—” She shook her head, dropped her voice. “You fucking idiot. You’re kidding me, right? Don’t you know who she is? Who her father is?”
“I know,” he said. “Well, I didn’t know that night. But I, uh, learned a couple of weeks ago.”
“And this project. This project we have her on. Don’t you realize how that’s going to look—” She put up her hand, eyes widening. “Wait. Did you say you just learned who she was?”
“No, I found out weeks ago.”
“Before or after?”
He rolled his eyes. “Before or after what?”
“Before or after you found out she was pregnant?”
Jordan hesitated, and Heather groaned, pacing away a few steps before turning back toward him. “Oh, my God, you’re a bigger idiot than I’ve ever given you credit for. You did it, didn’t you? Acted like Dad.”
“I— It wasn’t like that—”
His sister pretended to hit her head on the wall. “It was. You did exactly what Dad would have done. Tried to pay her off.” She started laughing. “You tried to buy off Abigail fucking Roberts.”
“Shh,” he said. “You’ll wake her up.”
Heather’s laughter abruptly halted. “My new VP is asleep in there?”
“My mere smell makes her puke.”
She started giggling, albeit quieter this time. “Oh, this is too good.”
“She’s exhausted,” he said, and if his tone was accusatory, it was because he felt no little amount of guilt about the stress he must have caused her over the last few months.
“I’m not going to fire her,” Heather said. “She’s the best designer I’ve ever met, and she seems to be good at managing people.”
“I don’t want you to fire her,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall of windows next to the door. “Just cut her a little slack.”
“Don’t fuck this up for us. If you want your pet project to go, we need to keep her happy.”
Jordan sighed. “Noted.”
“So why isn’t she on Roberts’ payroll?” Heather asked.
“Unlike Dad, good old Bernie doesn’t like women on staff.”
The lights above them turned on automatically, telling them both that it was getting late. The office generally closed early on Fridays since many employees worked longer days during the rest of the week, so the space was quiet.
“Dad liked women on staff a little too much.”
He smiled ruefully. “That he did.”
“Bernie’s missing out.”
Jordan nodded. “I know. Today was the first time I’d seen her work. It’s genius.”
Heather didn’t say anything for a long moment, just studied him closely before shaking her head. “Careful, brother, or you’ll end up like Dad, a brood of half-bloods gathered under his wing.”
“Just because you have a different mother doesn’t mean that you’re not my sister.” He paused, made sure his words were calm when the anger in him was a real thing. His past—his father’s past—did not define him any longer. “And I’m not Dad. When I’m with a woman, I’m only with that woman.
“I know.” She patted his arm, eyes warming for a brief second before her normal devil-may-care, taking-asses-not-prisoners demeanor returned.
Another shake of her head. “You knocked up Abigail Roberts. What a fucking idiot.”
And with that sisterly idiom, she walked away.
Jordan listened to her pack up her stuff in her office, watched as she walked by. “I sent Rich and the others home,” she tossed over her shoulder. “Lock up when you leave.”
He nodded his thanks and sat down to wait.
Chapter Seventeen
My neck ached, and there was a very persistent, very annoying buzz coming from about six inches from my left ear.
I groaned and rolled over, wondering when my bed had gotten so uncomfortable.
Groping for the phone, said source of annoying, persistent buzzing, I blindly swiped my finger across the screen. “Hello?”
“Are you okay?” Seraphina’s voice was concerned.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said. “I was just tired so . . .” My words trailed off as my eyes adjusted to the dark room.
This could not be happening.
“I’m sorry!” Sera said. “It’s just that I got home and saw your lights were off. I didn’t realize you were sleeping. Go back to sleep and call me later.”
She hung up before I could say anything in reply.
Which was a good thing, because the fact that I’d fallen asleep after puking my guts out in the company conference room on my first day of work was a fact that was not going to be spoken about until I died.
I banged the back of my head against the floor then whimpered when the sore spot connected with the hard surface.
“This literally cannot be happening,” I moaned, pushing to my feet. My shoes were lined up like a pair of perfect soldiers next to the trash can, both of which had been moved closer to the door.
I started for them and al
most ate shit as a jacket I hadn’t felt draped around me, slipped to my feet.
It was a man’s jacket. Jordan’s. I knew that because it smelled like him. Not like that terrible deodorant, but like Jordan the man. Slightly spicy and with a hint of salt. There was nothing sour about it when I brought it to my nose and sniffed.
And now I was randomly sniffing objects that belonged to my baby daddy.
Psycho, much?
I gathered up my notebook, cell, and pen, all of which were piled nicely by where I’d been laying.
I felt a wave of embarrassment flow through me. Not only because Jordan had seen me puke again, but also because everything my father said was proving to be true.
The weaker sex. Unable to hack it in a corporate world. Pathetic.
If he could only see me now, I thought sarcastically.
There was no way I still had a job after this.
Bending over, I grabbed Jordan’s jacket and then walked to the door to snag my shoes.
I’d write my letter of resignation and email it to Heather.
I sighed. Not even one full day on the job before I’d screwed up. Classic.
Jacket draped over my arm, notebook, pen, cell, and shoes gathered in my hands, I struggled to open the door.
After a moment, it pushed inward a couple of inches.
My stomach dropped, all hope of slinking out unnoticed vanishing.
“Hey,” Jordan said.
I hooked an elbow in the door and opened it all the way. “Hey.” I couldn’t even meet his eyes, I was so embarrassed.
I slipped out into the hall and hurried to my office, flicking on the light as I did so.
Quickly, I dropped my things onto my desk, shoved my feet into my shoes, and picked up my jacket. I was just thrusting my arms into it when I heard Jordan’s voice.
“Are you okay?”
I dropped my head back. Why couldn’t the man let me wallow in peace? I was beyond embarrassed. I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole. I wanted—
To be left alone.
Instead of saying any of those things, I forced a smile, finished buttoning my coat, and grabbed my purse. “I’m just peachy.”
“Abby . . .”
So what if my throat felt tight? So what if my eyes burned? I was just fine, dammit.
I sniffed, closed my eyes hard, and lost the battle with tears.
They poured down my cheeks in hot tracks and I quickly turned around, not wanting Jordan to see. Everything else was awful enough. This was just that extra cherry on the cake he didn’t need to see.
Chin to my chest, my foot tapping on the floor in pretend irritation—because it was actually in my-feet-really-fucking-hurt-and-it’s-still-not-as-painful-as-the-ache-in-my-heart—I said, “I’m totally fine. You just go ahead.”
Okay, that sounded watery. But, hell if it was all I had in me.
“Dammit!”
I jumped, whirling around.
Jordan was five feet away from me, his hands at his sides and clenched into fists. “I want to hold you but I can’t because I make you puke!”
I laughed.
Because of the absurdity of the situation. Because it was better than crying. Because I couldn’t do anything else.
I laughed until my stomach hurt and I slid to the ground. I laughed until Jordan started laughing too. And finally, I laughed until he sank to the floor across from me, safe-smelling distance away.
“If you just changed deodorants—”
His smile took my breath away.
Suddenly, I couldn’t look at him. My eyes drifted from the window to my desk, to my feet . . . back to Jordan.
“Hi,” he said softly.
“H-hi.” Oh, my God, I was such a dork. My voice was shaking and my fingers were trembling. I felt like we were on the precipice of something huge and I couldn’t decide if it was good or bad.
“Can we maybe try to start over?”
My thumbnail had a chip in the red polish adorning it. Actually, my pinky did too. I needed to redo all of them. Maybe in blue? No. That wasn’t really office-y. I could do silver sparkles. That would be pretty and just in time for Christmas. I—
“Abby?”
I blew out a breath, forced my gaze to his. “I’m not sure how to do this,” I admitted. “We haven’t exactly had the best start.”
“I know,” Jordan said, “and it’s my fault.”
“Not going to disagree with you there,” I muttered.
He laughed but then went sober. “Can I tell you something? I think it might help make sense of everything. Not that it’s an excuse, but just . . .”
I studied him as he trailed off. “Give some clarification?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
“I—” He stopped. “It’s just that—” A shake of his head. “Damn, this was easier in my mind.”
My heart started beating faster. I wasn’t sure if it was because he was uncomfortable or because what he was about to share was something big. I just knew that he looked nervous and I felt for him. “I know the feeling.” He glanced up. “Of things making more sense in my mind than in real life.”
He tilted his head to the side, eyes piercing as they locked on mine. “I don’t know how I ever thought that you could be like them.”
I picked at the hem of my skirt. “Like who?”
He grimaced. “Like the women I grew up with. No,” he said when I frowned. “Like the girls my father slept with after my mother died.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t realize you’d lost—”
“It was a long time ago and it’s not important.”
“Well, it’s clearly important.” I crossed my arms. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have brought it up.”
Jordan smiled again, this time not the take-my-breath-away version, but a sadder, smaller one. I didn’t like it.
“You’re right,” he said. “It is important. My mom was the glue that held my family together.”
“How many of you are there?”
“There were four of us. Now there are two.”
My brows drew down. I knew Jordan’s dad was still alive and Heather had called him brother. Maybe that was a nickname?
“I see you’re mentally calculating,” he said. “There were four of us before she died. My mom and dad, Zach—who was two years older—and me. After my mom . . .” His eyes dimmed, blue becoming icy cold with sadness. “Well, my dad’s drug of choice to forget was women. It got worse when Zach died five years ago.”
“How old were you when your mom . . . ?”
“Eleven.” He rolled his eyes. “Zach was sixteen. Both of us saw the never-ending parade of women—of girls, really, they were barely legal—coming through the house.”
My stomach twisted itself in knots, my heart absolutely ached for the little boys who’d lost their mother and then, for all intents and purposes, their father as well.
“I’m so sorry.”
Jordan shrugged. “It was what it was. I stopped blaming my father for it a long time ago. And I got some pretty cool half-siblings out of it.”
“How many?”
“Six. Well, seven, including Heather.” A pause. “You’re doing that mental calculating thing again.”
“What?”
“When you think really hard, these pull together.” He scooted a little closer, near enough to reach up and brush the skin between my eyebrows before dropping his arm and sliding back. “Okay?”
I sighed, still able to feel the brush of his fingers on my forehead. The skin was warm, marked by his touch. “Yes,” I said, breathless, and felt my cheeks heat.
“I like touching you.”
I ignored that, wanting to lighten the mood instead. I liked it when he was on the spot, not when his focus on me. “Lovely,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Just thinking is going to give me wrinkles.”
“I can smell the smoke,” he said.
I snorted.
“Not to mention, it’s cute
. You’re cute. Well, you’re beyond beautiful, but then you make a joke about yourself or start talking about marketing and design and my breath catches. You’re so much more than the outside.”
That was all I’d ever wanted. For someone to see me as more than just the sum of my parts. For someone to see inside my heart and decide that I was worthy of being loved.
God, I was so fucked up.
Not a shocker, given my past. But instead of focusing on the uncomfortable feelings blooming inside my brain and body, I concentrated on Jordan.
Why was he doing this?
Did he really want to start over?
Realistically, I wasn’t sure I could. I’d seen so many versions of Jordan at this point that I wasn’t certain which was the real one. How could I reconcile the kind, thoughtful man in front of me with the jerk surrounded by suits in my apartment?
How could I trust that he wouldn’t change right back?
“You’re doing it again.”
I reached up, felt my wrinkled brows, and relaxed my forehead. “I don’t know if I can start over.”
He grimaced. “I understand. I’ll leave you alone.”
But despite our words, neither of us moved.
I watched him watching me and decided that I couldn’t be certain he wouldn’t revert back to asshole Jordan version 2.0, but I was also quite certain that I was willing to take that chance.
“Heather doesn’t look younger than you,” I said, and it was a question even if it wasn’t phrased as such.
“She isn’t.”
“Then—”
“She’s six months older.”
I frowned and felt it that time. Dammit, I did do that a lot.
“My father was with her mother before mine. We didn’t find out about each other until her mother died when she was eighteen.”
I whistled. “I bet that was dramatic.”
Jordan’s lips twitched. “Considering she crashed a dinner my father was throwing for his shareholders, yes. It was quite the moment. Though”—he shrugged—“she was the third half-sibling that I had found out about, so not much surprised me at that point.”
“Still must have been hard.”
“Everyone has their own challenges. My father’s is, apparently, wrapping his tool.”
“Gross,” I said, laughing.
“Yeah, tell me about it. My father’s youngest is four years old. The man is sixty.” He shuddered.